


Tin Soldier

by Zavijah



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Disassociation, Light Torture, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-14 22:10:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21023039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zavijah/pseuds/Zavijah
Summary: Soldier:76 wants information from a secure Talon facility and he's willing to go to extreme measures to get it.Written for Bloody76week: Justice/Vengeance 2019





	Tin Soldier

When did he last do laundry?

Once he noticed the rust-like spots, Jack couldn't look past it. He scratched at the dried patches of blood while a man sputtered under his heel. It had been a busy week, or maybe two or three consecutive weeks, he wasn’t sure. Time blurred when he was on the hunt. Other than the basic needs — food, water, and sleep — Jack didn’t bother with the little things like washing his clothes or brushing his hair.

What were the washing instructions for Kevlar?

Was the blood from last week — or a month ago?

A hand frantically pawed at his calf. The man, some tech whiz for Talon, looked up at him with bulging eyes and purpling lips. Jack lifted his boot from his windpipe.

“It’s t-too secure,” the man wheezed, grasping at his throat with his unbroken hand. “You’ll never get in.”

Previous intel, gathered from equally frail men, provided Jack with enough information to raid the facility. He knew how many floors to expect, how many guards he’d encounter, where the servers were secured, what kind of clearance he needed to access the database; getting in wouldn’t pose a problem. The opposite, however, remained an obstacle he’d hurdle over later.

“What’s the keycard look like?” Jack asked.

“Why s-should I? You’re just going to kill me.”

“If you answer my questions, I’ll let you go.” Jack lifted his hand in a three finger salute. “On my honor.”

It didn’t mean he would help the man to the hospital. Death would have been a kinder mercy, but Jack wouldn't lose sleep over deciding to leave him to the rats. With a broken leg, arm, and a spine that had shattered like glass against super soldier strength, the Talon agent would have a hard time crawling out to the street, and an even harder time finding someone to give a shit about whether or not he died. Jack didn’t care, and the people out on the street cared even less.

Neon lights bled into Jack’s stark white hair as he stepped out of the alley ten minutes later. The signs buzzed over head, inviting in the lonely to partake in various shops and clubs promising to sate the most wicked of needs. Hollowed faces stared out at the street with vacant eyes while hunched figures hurried past with bowed heads.

Once upon a time, Jack would have never willingly set foot in a red light district, but now the seedier parts of town had become familiar hunting grounds. In a strange twist of fate, Jack fit in among the other lost souls. Like them, he had nothing left besides a need driving him ever forward. For some it was sex, for others it was drugs, for him it was something intangible, elusive, and insatiable.

Behind a cigarette, Jack plotted. He picked at the scar bisecting his lips as smoke curled above his head. The night life skirted and skulked around him, dodging his unwelcoming vibe. Not even the beggars looked up.

The man, the one he’d left in the alley, had a point about the facility being too secure for a traditional B&E. If Jack had been a less distinguishable figure — tall, fit, and bearing a set of facial scars drawing more than a few curious glances — he could have considered a covert op route.

But there were advantages to being easily recognized.

Jack stubbed out the cigarette against the wall and went to visit the darker corners of the city’s underbelly; past the sex shops, the fetish clubs, the drug dens. His last string of targets left him with enough money to barter for something more explosive in nature.

* * *

Soldier:76, dangerous vigilante, passed through the same social circles as Jack Morrison, deceased Strike Commander of Overwatch, but no one connected the two. As Strike Commander, a shining beacon of justice, the criminal world had leered and laughed at his promises to dismantle their organizations. Operating as Soldier:76, however, a man not bound by the red tape hobbling Overwatch, posed enough threat to warrant a hefty bounty on his head.

They were scared of him and he liked it.

_This is how it should have been._

Bounty hunters were a dime a dozen; all it took was a few hours at the right bar for them to spring. Jack fought back just enough to avoid a knife in the ribs and a shotgun to the knee. They took the pistol from under his jacket, the knives from his boots, and crowed over him while taking turns donning his trademark visor.

After drinks were spilled, spit flung, and a couple sucker punches dealt, his captors placed him bound and gagged into the back of a van while they made arrangements to pass him off to the highest bidder — which was Talon, who wanted him very much alive for interrogation. Or perhaps to add to their arsenal. Didn’t matter.

Jack caught up on his sleep in the meantime.

In the end, they walked him right through the front doors of the highly secure facility.

Already bound and slightly beaten, the Talon guards receiving him didn’t bother to check him over for weapons. They zip-tied him to a chair in a spare office room. A single guard and gun remained behind, watching as Jack curiously tugged at the plastic strips binding his arms and legs. He almost busted out laughing. They didn’t know who he was — _what_ he was — and apparently were holding him under temporary conditions until he could be moved to more appropriate accommodations.

It meant _he_ wasn’t involved — not yet.

The interrogation started like any other. They asked questions, he refused to answer. They asked more questions. He silently counted the tiles in the ceiling. They punched him and, with teeth stained red with blood, he smiled. They hit him more and Jack spit out blood while silently chiding their form. Really, the guy striking him was going to fracture his wrist if he continued with such poor technique. The blood and mottling of purpling bruises looked pretty against Jack’s pale skin, but it by no means left a lasting impression.

They left him to stew over threats of further harm. He closed his eyes and went over the building floor plan instead.

* * *

“We know you stole information from us in the past.”

The roll of leather filled with metal instruments said professional, but the man’s young face and scripted words said the new guy had watched one too many action movies. He moved slowly, toying with the tension, and made a decent show of setting up his gear, but what was meant to inspire fear made Jack impatient.

As the man removed his jacket and leisurely rolled up his sleeves, Jack perked at the sight of the keycard clipped to the man’s waist.

_Finally._

The man drew a chair up to him, “Who hired you?”

Jack flinched when a pair of pliers touched against the back of his hand and trailed down to the nail of his index finger. Cut him, break his bones, call him every name in the book; Jack could breeze through basic interrogation with flying colors. He drew the line at pulling fingernails. An utterly superficial wound as far as injuries went, but it was _annoying_ to grow back a nail, and hurt like a fresh paper cut. He closed his fists and squirmed just thinking about it.

“What information did you take?”

Little bits of information gathered here and there over the years created a web of interlocking details. He couldn’t see the big picture, or find the maker of the web, not yet, but he would keep bashing in the heads of Talon’s busy little drones until he obtained enough intel. He yearned for the day he could narrow his sights down to a single target.

Metal rapped against his knuckles, scolding him for hiding his fingernails.

“Who hired you?”

The zipties might as well have been scotch tape for all the good it did as a restraint. The plastic snapped as Jack jerked his arm free, seized the offending pliers, and buried the tool deep enough into the man’s eye it touched the back of his skull. The man dropped like a puppet without strings, slumping boneless to the floor instead of popping up to sing and dance.

Jack, legs still hobbled to the chair, swung toward the fumbling guard. He pinned the man to the wall with help of the chair and awkwardly jerked the guard’s head down until his neck gave with a dull pop.

The lack of cameras in the room allotted him more time to complete his objective and to feel mildly insulted at not being taken seriously. Without his visor they only saw the receding white hair and the creases of age along his brow; an old man with a grudge. It pricked at his pride, but, on the bright side, it worked in his favor.

His visor was on the table and smelled of cheap booze when he snapped it to his face. A pistol and knife was re-purposed from the fallen guard. He had to fish the keycard out of the pool of blood and only after he wiped it off on his thigh did he register his actions with a grimace.

Tomorrow; he’d do laundry, tomorrow.

The guard outside uttered a surprised ‘_what the—_’ before Jack slid the knife into the unprotected junction of his neck and jaw. Half his wipe pipe came out with the blade. Jack pushed the body into the spare office, wiped the blade clean, and moved on.

_You are here_ the wall map read, marking his position with a red arrow. The cracked display, from where he’d shoved another guards head, obscured the rest of the map, but it was enough for Jack to get his bearing (and learn the safest exit from the building in case of a fire) and head to the security room.

The lack of alarms blaring didn’t surprise Jack when, upon bursting in to the control room, he found the two guards bickering over a card game. He shot them; one bullet each. No one ran through the monitor screens to investigate the noise. Jack gently shut the door.

Inside the server room the machines hummed softly, singing with secrets. Jack knelt beside one of the towers and shucked off his jacket. From the seam along the sleeve he retrieved a small drive — a hacking program — and inserted it into the server. It opened up to project a small holovid screen for him to engage the hexagonal keys and start the transfer of information to a private server.

Next were the explosive charges; twelve of them. The bounty hunters had deemed him unarmed after divesting him of the pistol and knives. Presented with all of the charges, Jack felt inclined to use them. He set two on either side of the server room before slipping the rest into his ripped sleeve.

The air shifted; the sound of spinning fans echoing wrong. No footsteps. A chill crept along Jack’s neck, raising the hairs and telling him he was no longer alone.

“You need to train your men better,” Jack said without turning.

“Not my department.”

A glance showed Reaper blocking the exit; mask unreadable and claws lax at his sides. The servers hummed on, hardly concerned about the presence of a dead man. Jack checked the hack; it needed more time.

“They used zipties.” Jack said.

“I told them to shoot you.”

“I thought Talon wanted me alive.”

“I didn’t specify _where_.”

Jack snorted, almost a laugh, but the pistol tucked in his waistband reminded him the dark humor wouldn’t last. A bit of small talk to break the ice before getting to the violence. It was a step up from being blindsided and shot in the back.

“They wanted to handle it on their own. Sometimes,” Reaper’s head canted, playful, “you have to let them spread their wings.”

“And get shot down?”

“Exactly.”

He needed at least one more minute for the program to finish. The silence drilled into the back of his neck, urging him to rub at the phantom discomfort. Jack shifted his weight, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It never came. Jack studied the ghoulish mask, wanting to know what game the wraith was playing.

“Aren’t you going to…” Jack gestured at the hack.

“I told you, it’s not my department. I’m just… visiting.”

Jack tossed a glance at the door behind Reaper, barred by the wraith’s solid stance. The wraith followed the look, hummed, and rolled his shoulders as if fighting against the words clawing out of his throat.

“And maybe I was curious about what you were after.”

Information on the ever growing web of lies funneling deep into the ranks of Talon. Jack wanted to find the source and set it aflame. Nothing else mattered.

Except for laundry; needed to do laundry.

Tomorrow.

A short, peppy tune filled the room as the program ended. A personal touch from the hacker who designed it. The drive folded in on itself and Jack cleared his throat before pocketing it.

Gabriel’s claws flexed, “I’ll give you a ten second head start.”

“Liar.”

Jack lunged, knife flashing. Reaper dodged and Jack barreled through the door as laughter followed behind him.

_One-one-thousand._

According to the fire escape map, the stairwell was to the left and all the way down the hall.

_Two-one-thousand._

Alarms blared — _that cheat!_ — and Jack fumbled with the keycard to open the door, costing him time.

_Three-one-thousand._

He vaulted over the rail, using the guards climbing up as a landing pad.

_Four-one-thousand._

An extra second was taken to smash in the guard's head. Jack paused to consider his escape. Outside he would meet with the alerted forces of Talon. Reaper would be there as well. Jack could manage one or the other, but not both.

_Five-one-thousand._

Jack headed to the roof.

_Six-one-thousand._

He tucked an explosive charge along the underside of the stairs every other floor.

_Seven-one-thousand._

The snipers on the roof dutifully searched the grounds below. The first fell under his hands without a sound. The second forced Jack to draw the pistol and bury several tell-tale shots into his sternum. His fingers swiped over his mask, activating the targeting visor. The other snipers became visible to him amid a sea of red. Although he lacked his pulse rifle with homing rounds synced to the visor, the high powered rifle lifted from the fallen sniper did the job well enough. Ana would have been proud.

The visor whined as it powered down. What number was he on?

He traded the rifle for the man’s ear comm. They were searching, but at the moment they were not aware of his location. He listened to their frantic reports of bodies and gunfire while pacing out the rest of the explosives along the roof. Two or three would have done the trick, but after the disservice of being treated so light-handed, a lasting impression felt necessary.

Jack hunkered down where he could watch the roof access door.

The wind stirred and shadows collected on the edge of the roof. Reaper and his damn shortcuts. Jack sank lower as the wraith stepped forward, shotguns in hand, and glanced at the crumpled form of the nearest sniper. He didn’t check for vitals. Instead he cast a slow look over the rest of the rooftop.

“Olly olly oxen free.” 

Jack lips twitched with amusement. He slowly rose with a knife pinched between fingers. A quick snap of his arm sent it flying the burying into the meat of Reaper’s shoulder. The man — or whatever was left of Reyes because Jack was convinced the ghoulish costume was full of smoke and a lingering echo of what was once a friend — didn’t flinch.

The skull mask regarded the embedded knife for a full second before looking toward Jack.

A heartbeat passed where Jack fully appreciated the affronted impression wafting off of Reaper in twisting tendrils of black. Then the knife clattered to the ground as the wraith dissolved and surged toward him.

Jack swatted his hand through the buzzing swarm and side-stepped the forming mass. He caught the shotgun rising toward him and swung the knife at Reaper’s head. The blade glanced off the skull face. Jack drove the tip toward the eye slit but the wraith slipped away.

The attacks thrown at him were half-hearted, as if the wraith had forgotten what it was like to fight against someone _more_ than human. Jack stomped at his ankle. Missed. They spun around, striking and blocking in a familiar exercise. Jack twisted and drove his knee into Reaper’s solar plexus and was rewarded with a surprised grunt. His fingers snared in the wraith’s trench and with a quick pivot Jack threw the merc across the roof.

The body disappeared before impact and the shadows coiled before slamming into Jack’s chest and knocking him flat.

Reaper’s metal knuckles connected with the side of Jack's head hard enough to knock loose the visor and make his teeth clack together. Later he’d spit out the tooth chip. The wraith was rearing back for another skull rattling hit when the flood lights exposed their private dance. They both growled.

The end came too soon. Jack wanted to test whether or not Reaper could still bleed or if he just hissed like a popped tire.

He wrapped a leg around Reaper’s torso and dislodged him. Jack flipped back on to his feet where as Reaper stood like a swamp creature rising from an inky bog. Men fanned out behind Reaper; guns shouldered.

“What’s the plan now, Soldier?”

Jack slowly reached into his pocket while Reaper waved down the advancing men. Jack held up the detonator, his thumb already pressed down on the dead man’s switch.

Smoke curled off of Reaper’s shoulders as he gave a low chuckle, “You came prepared.”

Jack gave him the one finger salute.

“Who taught you to play dirty?”

“A guy I once knew.”

“_Oh?_”

“He was a real ruthless type.”

“I haven’t seen you this reckless since you were fresh out of boot.”

That _thing_ was not Reyes. It _wasn't_.

Jack waggled the detonator, "I'll give you a ten second head start."

Reaper didn’t move. “This has been fun.”

“Ten.”

“I’m glad I came to visit.”

“Nine.”

A nervous energy shifted the feet of the men behind Reaper. If they had a lick of sense, they understood what Jack held aloft, but Reaper wasn’t giving them the okay to shoot or to evacuate.

_Not his department._

“Eight—”

Ah, to hell with it.

Jack threw the detonator above their heads and sprinted away. The building shuddered under his boots just before he cleared the ledge. A five story drop wasn’t exactly a cake walk; the tendon in his knee tore as hit the ground and his shoulder cracked as he rolled off the impact. His rather graceless landing deftly knocked the breath from his lungs and he laid on his back, stuttering and sucking in air while staring up at the smoky night sky.

_Breathe_.

He could barely hear the din of the alarms or roar of fire over the pounding in his ears. Each intake of air stung; the pain tandem to life.

In.

_Get up, soldier._

Out.

_You're not dead yet._

Jack reached toward the sky for the hand meant to jerk him back to his feet and slap him on the shoulder. There would be words, a friendly jab meant to assure Jack he wasn’t in hell alone. They were in this together.

His fingers closed on empty air.

The building groaned as the side wall collapsed. Thick plumes of smoke flashed with licks of orange flame and spiraled toward the stars. As the alarms continued to wail no one took notice of an old man limping down the street.

The blush of neon welcomed Jack back to the unacknowledged nooks of the sprawling city.

No one cared as he staggered into the alley and sank into the weak shadows. His shoulder pulsed with pain, but he ignored it as he cobbled together a brace for his failing knee. The wind stirred and a shadow flickered across his uncovered face. The hairs rose on the back of his neck and Jack snapped his eyes upward. Up into the dark where the light from the buzzing signs didn’t pierce.

Slowly he drew the knife from his boot.

The shadows laughed; the sound echoed through the narrow alley before fading with the shifting wind.

It took ten minutes of absolute stillness before Jack relaxed and accepted he was, once again, alone. He slid the knife back into his boot then idly scratched away at the dried blood.  
  


_ Go ahead and hate your neighbor,  
Go ahead and cheat a friend.  
Do it in the name of Heaven,  
You can justify it in the end.  
There won’t be any trumpets blowing  
Come the judgment day,  
On the bloody morning after,  
One tin soldier rides away. _

  


**Author's Note:**

> Not that bloody. Just Soldier kicking ass, walking away from explosions, and being broken on the inside.
> 
> Lyrics: One Tin Soldier by The Coven.


End file.
